My Son
by CreativePunk77
Summary: First Fanfiction. One Shot. About Victor Criss. Constructive Criticism appreciated.


My Son – Lisa Criss's reflection on Victor.

My son disappeared in 1958. At the tender age of twelve. In actuality, he was nearing his thirteenth birthday. My son, a teenager! Yet it wouldn't have made a difference as he already acted like a teenager at the tender age of twelve. He stayed out late most nights and smoked. My son was never good at hiding the cigarette packets, that he had clearly stolen off of his father. He was never the perfect child, failing most of his tests, resulting in him having to go to that bloody summer school again. If he had studied, like I told him to, he would have passed and been able to help his father out with work around the house. I admit, it is a bit pretentious to feel that if he had studied, then he would have passed yet I still maintain that as my son was clever. Not 'A' material, but he was up there. When he could be bothered, of course.

August 14th 1958. The date he disappeared. He had gone out with Reginald and the Bowers boy. I was never against him being pals with the Bowers boy, even though I constantly reminded him to watch out for Butch Bowers. It wasn't until a couple of months before my son disappeared, that he started to express concern over the Bowers boy' sanity. This concern soon grew into fear. The day I last saw him, he was quiet and withdrawn. Speaking to him was like trying to juggle upside down. He didn't seem to hear half the time and would only respond in grunts. I gave up with him, theroizing that his quietness was due to all the terrible things that had been going on in the town since the winter of that previous year. Not surprising as some of the missing were his classmates.

Reginald sauntered up our drive at 11am. My son and Reginald had been friends since they were five, when they both got in trouble for what the teachers called 'an extreme form of bullying.' 'An unprovoked attack on a smaller boy who had simply been playing with a ball.' Bullshit. My son was the one who was attacked, the ball was thrown in his face, resulting in him and Reginald teaching the boy a lesson.

I have been close with Reginald's mother for a number of years now. We comforted each other, over the loss of our sons. I didn't know of my son's disappearance until the ten o'clock news, when a close up of the Bowers boy was shown, said one screaming and thrashing whilst being held by two policemen. The police were there to arrest the Bowers boy initially for the death of his father. Although I was horrified that a twelve year old boy could do such a thing, a part of me had been glad. Butch Bowers deserved it. As that terrible thought had drifted into my mind, my husband spoke.

"Yes he did deserve it didn't he? Oh, but don't worry Lisa, Butch Bowers will be alright. He'll just be floating around. You can come and say hello if you want to."

I had whipped my head around so sharply to look at Frank that a jarring pain had ran through my neck. I questioned him and had only received a confused look, his features clearly stating: 'What the hell are you on about woman?' Shaking my head, I had replied with a simple:

"Nothing."

The end months of 1958 had me on edge. Everytime, the door opened, I expected to see my son, grinning a sheepish grin, like he always did when caught. Which was a lot. I never once thought that my son was dead. Even when the police gave up, I thought that he was still out there. Him and Reginald doing typical teenage things together.

I visited the Bowers boy once, in the spring of 1969. He had been incarcerated at Juniper Hill since that day. August 14th 1958. We had chatted briefly as the words he had spoken shocked me to my core. In the end I fled, not wanting to believe it. Saying that my son was dead. Reginald too. Yet after hours of deration, I had decided not to believe the Bowers boy. After all, HE was the crazy one.

Reflecting on it now, I think of how stupid I was. Even though I dismissed his claims, my anxiety grew. 20th March 1970. That was the night that my fears were confirmed. I lay awake at 2am, alone. Frank had passed away, three years after my son disappeared. Reasons unknown. I had been thinking of my son, when I heard the front door open. My heart was beating furiously, my frazzled mind scrambling to think of how to defend against a burglar.

However an optimistic thought suddenly sprang up into my mind as I wrapped the dressing gown around me. What if it was my son? My grip on the recently acquired baseball bat loosened. Rushing forward, I had descended the stairs in a kind of ecstasy like wonder. My son! My twenty four year old son! All grown up! Come home! Not dead like the Bowers boy said he wa –

I had skidded to a halt when my eyes had laid on the horror in front of me. Screaming, eyes bulging, the baseball bat had smacked on the floor. Oh yes, my son was home. But he wasn't twenty four. He wasn't even alive.

The monster, that once was my son, shambled towards me still adorned in the t-shirt and jeans with the garrison belt, he had been wearing the date of his disappearance. 14th August 1958. The date of his death, my mind had screamed. He was also headless, blood spouting from his neck. Ripped off! My mind had screamed. His hands, clawlike, were stretched out before him, holding his head. My son's head had grinned a grotesque grin and uttered words that chilled me to the bone.

"Hey Mum, sorry I'm late. See me and Belch were floating around like balloons and we lost track of time. But don't ya worry Mum, everything will be fine and dandy! Cause Henry will get them soon enough. If not, It will."

My son had then cackled, a sound that screeched in my ears. I realised that if my son was dead, then so was Reginald. Tears had promptly cascaded down my face at this grim realization. I don't remember the rest of that encounter or the aftermath.

It is 1984 now and I have been at this house in New York for 14 years, as subsequently a month after that incident I had left Derry. I know for a fact that I will never return. It is early evening. The pills in my hand are enough to kill a horse. Swallowing them, my mind floats to thoughts of my son and Reginald. Whatever killed them deserved to be destroyed. For no human could have ripped off my son's head so brutally. I shudder to think what fate befalled Reginald.

As I slipped into unconsciousness, one thought remained.

Why? Why was my son and his friend killed? Did they do something wrong? Did they provoke their killer? They were only the tender age of twelve for god's sake.

Most people in Derry will regard my son as just one of the hundreds of missing, presumed dead, children. As I take my last breath, I smile. For he will always be:

My son.

My Victor.


End file.
